Safe
by Lovely Little Loser
Summary: She tells him she doesn't want to lose him. He tells her that's not an option. There can only be one victor. And he swears on his life it'll be her.


**A/N: She doesn't talk to him when they get on the Capitol train. She doesn't talk to him during the tribute parade. But when he finally gets her alone before their interviews, she's vulnerable. She tells him she doesn't want to lose him. He tells her that's not an option. He can't think of a time when they both managed to let their walls come crashing down like that but now that they have, he knows they'll both regret it. Without having to say a word, he knows she understands their circumstances. There can only be one victor. And he swears on his life it'll be her.**

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><p>He's eight years old when he meets her. She's fresh out of pre-school and starting kindergarten at the time, a tiny little thing at best. He laughs to himself at the sight of her. She's a runt. He'll never consider <em>her<em> a threat.

He teases her everyday at school and resolves to calling her "Pipsqueak" just to get a rise out of her. Her short temper only adds to his amusement. Most days he'll sneak out of his third grade class to visit his little pipsqueak during her lunch time. She hates when he does that. He'll take her things and use his superior height to keep her jumping like a cat for a string. This goes on for almost a year before he finally quits. The minute he finds out his little pipsqueak is a prodigy when it comes to knife throwing, the teasing stops.

When he's ten years old, his training for the Hunger Games intensifies. Six years has already been invested thus far, and as he grows closer to the age at which he's eligible for the reaping, his training only gets tougher. He has to work longer. He has to work harder. It's not until after he proves that he's one hundred percent dedicated to improving that his trainers decide he needs someone to train alongside him to keep him motivated. When they suggest his little pipsqueak as his partner he laughs in their faces. He still towers over her but now he knows her name. Clove. She's waspish, ornery, testy, and spiteful but he admits to himself that she's good. She's the most accurate knife thrower he's ever seen, but he'll never let her know that. He's got too much pride.

Instead he makes snide remarks to her and she has no problems countering everything he says. She's small, she's quick, she's clever. And he hates it. He hates _her_. She's absolutely perfect at everything and she knows it. He takes every possible opportunity he has to cut her down. It's the only thing that helps him maintain his sanity when he's around her.

One day she comes into training and warns him not to bother her. She's in a horrible mood and when he asks her why she ignores him completely. He tries at least a dozen more times, but it's not because he cares. He's just curious. She shuts him out and he can't help but feel a bit annoyed. He was just asking a question, after all. She doesn't care though, and she goes about training as usual. He goes about teasing her anyway. He also goes home early that day with a huge cut wound on his upper arm.

He's twelve years old when she asks him why things are so difficult between them. She asks why they can't just tolerate each other and train so they can both go to the Games and come out as victors. He's caught off guard and that's not like him. Cato is never off guard. He admits that he doesn't know and they form an sort of alliance out of this. He doesn't stop teasing her but there's much less venom then before. He isn't as afraid to show her encouragement every once in a while. And by the way she's slowly opening up to him, he realizes she's not completely vile.

Over time he starts noticing her mannerisms, things that he's sure she doesn't even notice about herself. He catches her small, signature smirk when they're training together, the only time she ever truly looks happy. He notices the gleam in her eye when she sets her sights on a target and the pride she doesn't bother suppressing when she hits it with exact precision. For the first in his life he thinks he might actually watch this girl enter the arena and emerge as a victor.

He still has too much pride to admit it.

When he's thirteen years old he thinks he's finally figured her out. He tells her she's crazy. He can think of at least a dozen more words to describe her; the words sadistic, psychotic, and _batshit insane_ all come to mind, but crazy works just fine too. He knows she can take out a person in one simple movement but whenever she has the chance she likes to take her time and slowly dismantle a training dummy, relishing in every tear and gash she creates. It's sick watching her, but at the same time, it's an art form. She's not completely manic, at least he hopes she isn't, but she accepts him calling her crazy and smiles. To her, this is a compliment. And to him, that only makes her crazier.

But in some twisted way, he likes that about her.

When he's fourteen years old he's grown out of his phase of hating his little pipsqueak. They're more than just allies now, they're practically friends. He makes it a point to tease her, but he's also grown to be a bit possessive of her. He finds himself going through hell and back defending her from the older boys who have the nerve to talk bad about her. He gets in trouble for picking fights constantly, all because of _her_, and is consistently lectured by his trainers. He doesn't care as long as she doesn't find out. She'd plunge a knife into his heart if she ever knew.

He still feels the need to protect her, even if that puts him at the top of her hit list.

When he's fifteen years old, he realizes for the first time he's nervous for the reaping. His name is in the little glass bowl four times this year, but that's not what he's worried about. It's _her_ first year in the reaping. She's twelve years old and her name is only registered once but the fact that her name is somewhere in that forsaken bowl makes him want to vomit. He knows she knows how to fight but she's still his training partner. He still towers over her. She's still his little pipsqueak. He finds that every muscle in his body is tense and he can't seem to catch his breath until he hears that her name isn't called and the girl who volunteers isn't her. When the reaping is over and she complains that she's not in the Games this year he chuckles.

He doesn't tell her how relieved he is that she's not leaving him. Not just yet.

When he's sixteen years old, he considers calling her his best friend. Over the years she's become incredible as far as her training is concerned, and she isn't as bad as he remembers thinking she was when they were kids. He finds out that she has an immense desire to be in the arena now and he tries his best to subdue her. For reasons he can't quite explain, the thought of her going into the arena unnerves him. His stomach churns at the thought of it. It seems to be the complete opposite for her. She can't wait to be the victor and tells him about it everyday, and everyday he finds himself doing everything in his power to avoid this conversation.

As time goes on, he finds himself watching everything she does and only seeing the danger she's putting herself in. She's skilled, but she's careless. She'll be killed in no time and he nags her about this constantly. She doesn't listen until one day during training when he wrestles her knifes out of her hands and pins her against a wall. He tries to think of ways to explain how this makes his point but he can't say much to her in their compromising position. He's got both her wrists in one of his hands above her head and their bodies are perfectly aligned. His hips match up perfectly with her own and when he realizes just how good her warm breath feels when it clings to his neck, he lets go of her right away, reminding her to be more careful and watch her surroundings.

It takes him a few months, but he admits that he feels something for her and whatever it is, it makes him sick. He gets more aggressive with his training and talks to her less, hoping that whatever he feels for her will go away in time.

It doesn't.

He's so close to almost hating her again when she stops him one day after training. They don't say much at first and it's awkward. At first she snaps at him for ignoring her and he doesn't argue back. But once she's blown off enough steam she starts telling him what's truly on her mind. And for the first time since he's met her, he realizes that she's being completely open with him. It's a struggle for her, he can tell, but he tries to do the same when she tells him she cares about him. It goes against everything he knows, but he takes a risk and kisses her. She doesn't scream at him. She doesn't slap him. She doesn't even pull away. But he can't tell if this is right. So they decide not to act on this.

Or at least they try not to.

After the kiss he finds himself distracted by her. He was wrong. She is a threat, but not in the way he thought she would be. He never thought the runt of the litter would be his greatness weakness. When he asks to train alone from now on, no one objects. He should be working on honing his skills but instead he using his time to try and get his little pipsqueak out of his head. Nothing seems to work until he accidentally bumps into before training one day. It takes everything he's got, but he swallows his pride and admits he misses her. She tries to hide her smile but she tells him that she misses him too. He's glad to have his training partner back, but he's even happier just having her around again.

But he knows better than to admit to it this time.

He's eighteen years old now and it's his last year to enter the Games. Every other male in the District knows not to volunteer because it's his year to come back as a victor. He brags to her about it but she doesn't seem amused. She tells him to let some other blockhead enter the Games for him. He brushes it off every time until one day she finally loses it and begs him not to enter the Games. He wants to ask why she suddenly cares so much when she grabs him by the collar and forces her lips on his. Maybe it was genuinely out of love, maybe out of lust, or maybe it was just to give him a reason to stay. He'll never really know. He doesn't change his mind but he tells her he'll consider it.

It's the day of his final reaping and he knows he should be listening and on the top of his game but his mind can't focus on anything but _her_, wherever she is in the crowd. He's never been religious but he finds himself praying to an entity he doesn't believe to keep her safe. He'll give anything to make sure her name won't be the one that's picked. But it is. And no one volunteers to go into the Games for her. The Capitol woman doesn't even have a chance to reach the glass bowl filled with the names of the potential male tributes when he screams out the two fatal words;

"_I volunteer_."

Everyone claps for him as he takes the stage; everyone except _her_, the only person who actually matters, the person who he's going to die protecting in the Seventy-Fourth annual Hunger Games. She doesn't talk to him when they get on the Capitol train. She doesn't talk to him during the tribute parade. But when he finally gets her alone before their interviews, she's vulnerable. She tells him she doesn't want to lose him. He tells her that's not an option. He's not sure where that leaves them, but he finds himself slowly closing the space between them and this time it's mutual. When he kisses her, she accepts it. She kisses him back. He can't think of a time when they both managed to let their walls come crashing down like that but now that they have, he knows they'll both regret it. When they step into the arena, she'll be the only thing her can think of. He'll be longing for her kiss, for her touch, for _her_, but he knows that it's not going to happen. Without having to say a word, he knows she understands their circumstances. There can only be one victor. And he swears on his life it'll be her.

He vows to keep her safe.

The night before the Games she can't seem to fall asleep so he offers to keep her company in her bed. They don't say much. Neither of them is truly good with words unless they're filled with hatred and venom. It doesn't make a difference. There's nothing to say. The fact that they can both find comfort in each other's arms speaks volumes.

When he think she's about to fall asleep he whispers softly into her hair that he loves her. He's not sure if he means it, but if he's going to die, there's no point in worrying if it's true. If one of them is going to die, he wants her to feel eternally loved. He knows it not something she _wants_ to hear, but it's something she _needs _to. He hopes that she heard him and maybe she'll be happy. Maybe she'll reciprocate. Her soft gentle snores are his only response. She didn't hear him. And for some reason, he wishes she did.

The next time he sees her, she's standing, poised and ready on her starting plate, just twenty feet away from him. He can vaguely hear the announcer counting down what might very well be their last fifty seconds of safety when she makes eye contact with him. Her lips involuntarily form a small frown. There's a look of grief in her eyes. She must realize this might be the last time she sees him too. When the announcer reaches ten, he swallows hard and mouths the only word he knows can help her at this point; "_Run._"

He doesn't think there's any words to describe the amount of relief he feels when she strolls up to him after the bloodbath with a coy smile. She made it unscathed, and more than anything he wants to hug her, to hold her, to twirl his little pipsqueak around in his arms. He restrains. He knows better.

The fire's back in her eyes and for a moment, he forgets they might be in mortal danger. He finds himself blatantly coming on to her, and she seems to be doing the same. That's farther than he'sever dared to go with her, though they both make sure to keep their physical contact to a minimal. Whatever they have he wants it to be real, not televised like those goons from District Twelve. His feelings for Clove are genuine. He doesn't need the cameras and the sympathy of the Capitol citizens to prove it.

When the first night in the arena falls and an alliance is formed, he still finds himself clinging to her side. The alliance is superficial. She is the only one he trusts. He's going to end up killing all of them anyway. All of them except for _her_. No, he's making sure she gets herself back _home_ where she belongs. Safe and sound.

He urges her to sleep next to him but she's reluctant. She refuses to be the weak one and run into his arms. She's not that kind of girl. He gives in and goes to her, wrapping his muscular arms around her like he did the night before. This is the only way he'll be able to fall asleep, knowing that his little pipsqueak is where he can keep an eye on her. She's surrounded, she's warm, she's safe. When she tells him how much she hates District Twelve he promises to slaughter them for her. She smirks at him before she dozes off, her perfect hazel eyes close, her head fits snuggly on his chest. He smiles at his little pipsqueak and spends the rest of the night coming up with different ways he can decapitate the moronic girl on fire.

It's been a countless number of days in the arena and tributes are dropping like flies. Their food supply is gone. Blown to bits. But the girl on fire is still out there somewhere and he regrets underestimating District Twelve. Frustrated and irritable, he wants nothing more than to kill someone. This feeling is only quelled when he sees _her_, his little pipsqueak, and she calms him. She's got just as much desire to see someone suffer, to see that stupid District Twelve girl _drown in her own blood_ but she's a better predator than he could ever be. She's patient. She observant. She's deadly. When she assures him that they'll kill District Twelve together he smiles. He knows she'll put on a good show for him.

When night falls and they find shelter, he's beyond enraged. They're the only Careers left, it's just the two of them. But she's not as angry as he is. She's still got the sense to keep a level head. When she tries to calm him, something about his demeanor changes. He looks at his little pipsqueak and it dawns on him for the first time that in a few days, he will never see her again. He'll never hear her voice, never see her smirk, never get to hold her. He walks over to her and grabs her face in his strong hands, but before she can ask what's going on he leans down and kisses her. Hard. He suddenly stops caring that all of Panem is watching. Why should it matter? Hell, if the citizens of the Capitol want a show, _he'll give them a show_.

At first she resists his advances. This is not what she expected. But when his lips keep firmly assaulting her own, she gives in. And for once, what they have feels right to him. They're not caring what others think. They're not worrying about everything. For once, they're giving themselves to each other, _like they should have years ago, _he thinks to himself, but it's awfully hard to think straight with her tongue down his throat.

When the announcement is made that there can be two victors his heart swells up in his chest. He and his little pipsqueak can be together. Once they're out of the arena, maybe he can feel all these stupid feelings for her without regret. Maybe there's a chance. Maybe the odds_ will_ be in their favor. She smirks, no, she _smiles _when she hears the news, not hesitating to capture his lips in a kiss. Maybe there_ is_ hope for the star-crossed lovers of District Two.

This hope vanishes on the day of the feast.

She's screaming out his name and he's sure anyone can hear her strangled cries within a five mile radius. The second her voice pierces his ears his feet start pounding against the cold hard pavement. He's running, he's _sprinting _but he's not moving fast enough. Every step, every meter, he knows every second counts if he wants to save her _but he just can't move fast enough._ He reaches his little pipsqueak and he calls out to her, hoping that maybe he'll reach her in time, maybe he'll be able to make the pain go away, maybe he'll be able to save her.

He doesn't.

He lifts his perfect little pipsqueak into his arms and holds her, in the only place she was ever safe. All he can feel is unimaginable rage. Rage at her for being reckless _when he warned her to be fucking careful_, anger at himself for not being there to prevent this, but more than anything he's upset because he lost _her_. The girl he's always towered over. The girl he's trained with almost all of his life. The girl he was supposed to sacrifice himself for in the Seventy-Fourth annual Hunger Games.

The girl who, after ten years, he's finally figured out might be the only person on this planet who he actually _loves_.

He could still do it. He could win the Games and go back home. Maybe try and forget. He knows he's got the strength and skill to do it. He could try living without her. He probably wouldn't last long, but it's and option, and horrible one at that. As he's holding her corpse and begs her to stay with him while the life is draining from her body, he can feel his own life draining too. He doesn't have the drive to win these Games. Not anymore, not without _her_.

He's as good as dead.

And once the life is gone from Clove, his sanity is the next to go.

It's the last day of the Games and he's being eaten alive by mutts. And he knows he should be trying to fight for his life, or at least fighting harder than he is right now, but he knows he's so close to her. So close and yet, _still so Goddamn far._ His vision is blurred, his head is spinning and he's slipping slowly into darkness that only the pain from being eaten alive can interrupt. He can almost hear her voice ringing in his ears, pleading with him to go under, to slip into the darkness, to join her and be with her forever. He trusts her, more than he's ever trusted anyone, but he can't seem to reach her. Even on the verge of death, nothing has changed. He still can't reach his little pipsqueak. Not until District Twelve aims an arrow at his head.

He slips under the darkness, he moves towards the sound of her voice which is now crystal clear. The pain stops. The grief ends. He can feel her touch, her simple kiss, he can hear her laugh, he can see her smile. Her piercing hazel eyes are full of life again. Her lips twitch upward into her famous smirk.

_She's just like he __remembered_.

And for the first time in eighteen years, he is happy. He is surrounded. He is safe.


End file.
